


"And miles to go before I sleep... and miles to go before I sleep."

by LadyCorvidae



Series: "But I have promises to keep..." [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCorvidae/pseuds/LadyCorvidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The job is done. Now Sherlock is home for good, and he reunites with the people he has missed most. A case rears its head, and it looks to be one that will be more than enough of a challenge for him. Third and final part of the "But I have promises to keep..." series.</p>
<p>I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any other characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Moffat and Gatiss. I also do not own any poems or poetry by Robert Frost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"And miles to go before I sleep... and miles to go before I sleep."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doctor WTF (Mimzy)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Doctor+WTF+%28Mimzy%29).



It had now been three years since Sherlock’s absence- well, his ‘death.’ He had taken down every spider and web that James Moriarty had built or hired, and in doing so, cleared his name. He was no longer the fake, the phony, the liar. He was now the wronged, the brilliant, the courageous. This meant that he could return to London and the life he had lived. The things he had missed- the people he’d missed, as much as he still disliked sentiment.

But those years away on the run had changed Sherlock. He no longer though of sentiment as a detriment (even though it was, most of the time), but merely another facet of his already multi-faceted personality. In his race to clear his name and bring down a criminal mastermind’s work, he had found more of his humanity. The people he stayed with; who took him in and shared what they had with him, even when they had precious little of their own- before, he would probably have left without a word or a gesture. Now, he made sure he left at least a note, if not a small yet substantial sum of money (usually stolen from a drug dealer or black market weapons supplier) in return for their kindness. He had killed in his time abroad- he didn’t like to admit it, but it had to be done or he wouldn’t have been able to return at all. In fact, he would probably have been killed himself if he hadn’t taken a life in retaliation. 

He shook himself. He was dwelling, and that was the realm of sentiment already. He was home, he was in London- his city. _His_ London. The people he cared for where here, and it was where he belonged, with its bustling streets, smog-choked air and wealth of crime that had, no doubt, trebled in his absence. There were his people to visit, reveal that he was alive and that he had kept them safe.

John was first. He had dropped his cuppa (was still living at Baker Street, but not for long. He’d met a woman, Mary Morstan, and it was serious- that would have to stop, or else he’d, god forbid, marry her) and the ceramic had shattered on the floor, liquid splattering everywhere. The former army doctor had gone white, stammering, then furiously angry. He’d punched Sherlock once, twice in the face, then hugged him hard, sobbing like a child into the front of his coat. Sherlock found himself choked with emotion, tears stinging his own eyes as he returned the embrace, reunited with his best friend. Once he had recovered both from the punch and the bout with sentiment, he and John had found Mrs. Hudson, the shorter man coming along to make sure the poor woman didn’t have a heart attack or a stroke from the sudden reappearance of her once-dead tenant/surrogate son. Mrs. Hudson had fallen against the refrigerator, hand pressed to her heart. Then it was a round of questions and sobbing and beating Sherlock about the head and shoulders, half-heartedly, with a tea towel before hugging him even harder than John did. 

So it went with Lestrade, who nearly shot him, arrested him, then hugged him the hardest yet. Sherlock winced as he felt his most likely bruised ribs gingerly. The look of shock and horror on Anderson’s face was one that he’d treasure in his mind palace for years to come, to be sure. Donovan had offered him an astonished silence and later, after everything sunk in, a nod of ‘welcome back’, even as she looked shell-shocked. 

Then it was the flurry and annoyance of the press with their endless questions of how he’d done it, where he’d been, anything he’d like to comment on. The flash of the cameras and the microphones and tape recorders were overwhelming, as were the babble of voices. With a simple statement of ‘No comment’, he managed to push his way through the throng of people and hail a cab to the one place he knew he would be able to find peace, even as he questioned the fact as to why he found peace there- Molly Hooper’s flat. He took the stairs up, two at a time, before easily picking the lock. 

The door swung open inward to reveal a very startled pathologist in an overlarge sweater (sentiment again- an old item of clothing, the last birthday present her father gave her; he knew her love of things that were heinously ugly on her, but comfortable) and soft cotton trousers, her feet bare and her toenails a violent shade of red. He deduced her flat’s interior first- shabbier than it had been when he had last been here, but that was three years ago. It was more than three years’ wear; she had been demoted, and had to struggle her way back up to her current position. He felt both a hot surge of anger and a pang of guilt. It was his fault she had been demoted- he knew that she had been questioned and most likely suspended due to her involvement with him, giving him body parts for non-specified experiments, allowing him unauthorized morgue access. Mycroft hadn’t told him, and for a moment, he both hated and was thankful to his brother. It would have caused him to worry more for Molly (though he would have denied it in a heartbeat) if he had known that she was in trouble because of him.

“Sherlock... you’re... you’re back,” she said, her voice trembling. The sound of it snapped him out of his deductions and he looked at her face. Her eyes were wide and watery and she had taken three steps towards him. She was currently looking at him as if he were some sort of miracle, and it made him feel uncomfortably warm. His heart was beating faster, and he didn’t know if it was from the quick climb of the stairs (impossible- he was in excellent physical shape) or due to some other reason. There was another explanation, but it was so steeped in sentiment that he nearly rolled his eyes at the thought.  
“I am back,” he said, and he could see her arms prickle into gooseflesh at the sound of his voice. There was another part of his mind that was highly pleased that he had this effect on her, but that was shoved aside to be examined later as well.  
“For good? Are you all right? Is everything solved?” she asked. Then she searched his face. “You’ve already seen John- there’s an impressive bruise on your jaw,” she said. He felt a surge of pride- she was using the skills of deduction he had taught her when he was holed up here for those three weeks after his Fall.  
“To answer your questions- yes, for good. I am all right, almost everything is solved, and yes, I visited John first,” he replied. He saw her brow furrow at the ‘almost everything’ remark.  
“What do you mean, ‘almost everything’? Is there a loose end?” she asked.  
“There is,” he said, and saw her go white with fear. “Nothing involving Moriarty or his ilk. This is a more personal matter that I have to think on in more detail,” he added quickly. She visibly relaxed. Then she smiled at him, that soft shy smile that plagued him the entirety of his three year absence, and he found his heart pounding faster.  
“I’m glad that you’re home safely,” she said quietly. Then, without warning, she was in his arms, hers wrapped around him, face buried in his chest. He stood, stock-still for a moment, before reciprocating the embrace. This was probably the most he’d been hugged in the shortest amount of time, he inwardly mused. Then he focused on how she felt against him, her small form molding to his. His heart, now at a gallop, did an odd sort of flip. He would have to ask John about that when he returned to Baker Street- he was a doctor and would know the answer to that sort of thing. She sighed and nuzzled closer, and that made him swallow hard. After several long, confusing and not unpleasant moments, she moved away, a wider smile on her face.  
“I... have to be getting back to Baker Street. While my room wasn’t let out, I’m sure that John turned it into a storage area or something else ghastly. My sock index is likely ruined, and I need to tune my violin,” he said. Good Lord, he was _babbling._ This was, in John’s words, ‘a bit not good’. Her face fell slightly.  
“All right. Well... don’t be a stranger. I’m back in the morgue now, and I’m sure you’ll have people falling all over themselves to let you in. And... if you ever want tea or need a place to stay when John has Mary over, you can come here,” she said.  
“Thank you,” he said with a nod. She beamed at him and it was like someone had turned a heater on his face. She stood on her tiptoes and brushed the softest of kisses against his cheek and he felt something in him stir and raise its sleeping head.  
“Thank you for keeping your promise,” she murmured. “You came back safely.” He merely grunted in response and nodded, the skin where her lips had been tingling nicely. She waved at him as he left the building and started to walk- he needed time to think.

This was Molly Hooper, the pathologist. _His_ pathologist. The woman who saw through him when no one else did or could. The one who had, quite literally, killed him to save him and so many others. The One Who Counted. And now, something else. She was something else to him, and he didn’t know what. This would take time to figure out. Perhaps, he thought with a bit of a grin and a spring in his step, his greatest case yet. The Mystery of the Pathologist and the Sentiment. He knew it would take time, a good deal of it, and most likely outside help from John and Lestrade. But he knew that something was up, and that something was going to be quite significant. 

The game, after all, was afoot, and there were going to be many miles to go before this reached its resolution.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this!


End file.
